Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(25)

Donna has the car loaded with packages for the new baby. She has even crocheted pillow covers to match the array of granny square blankets. Her face is thin and gaunt, but it has a glow almost impossible to describe. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to; her happiness is obvious.

After dinner Mama and Donna are both tired and go to bed early. “It’s been a long day,” Mama says.

As Donna walks toward the bedroom she claps her hands. Jason scoots from beneath the table and follows along.

Once they are beyond hearing range, I turn to Dick and say, “Donna doesn’t look good, does she?”

He shrugs. “Actually I think she looks better than last winter.”

“That’s just because she’s happy about the baby.”

“It’s possible.” He nods and returns to the newspaper he’s reading.

I settle back into my thoughts knowing it’s true. Just as worry can make a healthy person appear sickly, happiness can spread its glow across the face of the sick and make them appear more alive. This, I know, is the case with Donna. I see the rosy look of happiness on her face, but her hands are bone-thin and shaky. The telltale truth can be found in her hands.



Although Mama herself is an early riser, she has raised three night owls. Neither I nor either of my sisters are early birds, but when I wake and stumble into the kitchen for my first cup of coffee Donna sits at the table dressed and ready to go.

“What’s this?” I say jokingly.

She shrugs and gives me a sheepish grin. She mouths the word, Anxious.

I laugh. “We don’t have to leave for another three hours.” I pour my coffee and sit cross from her.

It’s funny how I remember that one-sided conversation so vividly. My sister and I have a lifetime of shared secrets, most of them long forgotten, but not this one. In this strange combination of sign language and lip reading that we now have, she tells me of her experience with motherhood. Donna doesn’t bother with the small words; she mouths only the words that carry weight. First time. Holding baby. World changes. The words are accompanied by actions of holding an invisible baby in her arms and the wide extension of her hands meaning “world.”

Eventually words become too much for her. She pulls a napkin from the holder on the table and writes I never thought I’d live to see my grandchild.

A short while later when Mama walks in, Donna and I both have a stream of tears rolling down our cheeks.

“Who said what to whom?” Mama asks, and we all laugh.



Like everyone else, Donna, Mama and I arrive at the shower well before Debi is scheduled to make an appearance. Unlike everyone else, when a whisper runs through the room saying the mother-to-be is about to walk in, we don’t join the throng at the front of the room waiting to shout “Surprise!” Ann, of course, stands front and center.

We linger in the back and wait. Ellen and I are the only ones who know Debi is aware of what’s happening.

As is the case at all showers, be it bridal or baby, the guest of honor gives a gasp of surprise. “Oh my gosh,” Debi exclaims, “I had no idea!”

But even as she feigns her astonishment, I see her eyes scanning the room. When she asks, “Is my mom here?” Donna raises her hand and waves from the back.

Brushing past Ann with little more than a nod, Debi makes her way through the crowd and hurries back to Donna.

“Mom!” she squeals. “It’s so good to see you!” Debi turns to the crowd. “Hey, everyone! This is my mom!” She gives Donna a smile, then turns back to the crowd. “She’s not just my mom, she’s the best mom in the world.”

A tear rolls down Donna’s face.

I told you Donna never cries, but that’s not really true. She never cries about the disappointments and hurts most people would cry over, but she’s softhearted when it comes to sentimentality. When a spark of emotion touches her heart, Donna is easily enough brought to tears.

After the food is eaten and the cake devoured, we gather to watch Debi open the stacks of gifts mounded beside a chair decorated with ribbons. Ann sits in the chair next to it.

Debi sits, then turns to Ann. “Would you mind scooting over so my mom can sit next to me?” She says this in a pleasant voice, but she leaves no doubt that it is to be done. Before Ann’s butt is out of the chair, Debi waves Donna over.

I know all aunties love their nieces, but my love for Debi is different, bigger, and more powerful. It’s the kind of love you’d have for your own child. Or your sister. I have to love her this way, because she is a younger version of Donna. This day she is not thinking of being the star of the show; she is more concerned with being Donna’s voice. I glow with pride.

As Debi unwraps gifts she passes them to Donna who wordlessly holds up each item for the crowd to see. She doesn’t have to speak; Debi speaks for her.

“Oh,” Debi says, “this adorable sweater set is from Aunt Geri…”

Although Donna’s meager income is barely enough to cover expenses, she has somehow gathered a stack of gifts for the baby. The crocheted items are handmade, but the others she bought. I would gladly replace the money she spent for these gifts, but I don’t. To do so would take away the joy of sacrifice. To give a lot when you have a lot is easy; but to give a lot when you have so little is indeed a gift of love.